The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (ebook reader android TXT) 📕

he repeated. “We were brought

up together; our mothers were friends—and I

—envied him, because I saw that he loves her,

too, and because—because–-”

 

“My son,” said Father Cardi, speaking after a

moment’s silence, slowly and gravely, “you have

still not told me all; there is more than this upon

your soul.”

 

“Father, I–-” He faltered and broke off

again.

 

The priest waited silently.

 

“I envied him because the society—the Young

Italy—that I belong to––”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Intrusted him with a work that I had hoped

—would be given to me, that I had thought myself

—specially adapted for.”

 

“What work?”

 

“The taking in of books—political books—from

the steamers that bring them—and finding a hiding

place for them—in the town––”

 

“And this work was given by the party to your

rival?”

 

“To Bolla—and I envied him.”

 

“And he gave you no cause for this feeling?

You do not accuse him of having neglected the

mission intrusted to him?”

 

“No, father; he has worked bravely and devotedly;

he is a true patriot and has deserved nothing

but love and respect from me.”

 

Father Cardi pondered.

 

“My son, if there is within you a new light, a

dream of some great work to be accomplished for

your fellow-men, a hope that shall lighten the burdens

of the weary and oppressed, take heed how

you deal with the most precious blessing of God.

All good things are of His giving; and of His giving

is the new birth. If you have found the way

of sacrifice, the way that leads to peace; if you have

joined with loving comrades to bring deliverance

to them that weep and mourn in secret; then see

to it that your soul be free from envy and passion

and your heart as an altar where the sacred fire

burns eternally. Remember that this is a high and

holy thing, and that the heart which would receive

it must be purified from every selfish thought.

This vocation is as the vocation of a priest; it is

not for the love of a woman, nor for the moment

of a fleeting passion; it is FOR GOD AND THE PEOPLE;

it is NOW AND FOREVER.”

 

“Ah!” Arthur started and clasped his hands;

he had almost burst out sobbing at the motto.

“Father, you give us the sanction of the Church!

Christ is on our side–-”

 

“My son,” the priest answered solemnly,

“Christ drove the moneychangers out of the

Temple, for His House shall be called a House

of Prayer, and they had made it a den of thieves.”

 

After a long silence, Arthur whispered tremulously:

 

“And Italy shall be His Temple when they are

driven out–-”

 

He stopped; and the soft answer came back:

 

“‘The earth and the fulness thereof are mine,

saith the Lord.’”

 

CHAPTER V.

 

THAT afternoon Arthur felt the need of a long

walk. He intrusted his luggage to a fellow-student

and went to Leghorn on foot.

 

The day was damp and cloudy, but not cold; and

the low, level country seemed to him fairer than he

had ever known it to look before. He had a sense

of delight in the soft elasticity of the wet grass

under his feet and in the shy, wondering eyes of

the wild spring flowers by the roadside. In a

thorn-acacia bush at the edge of a little strip of

wood a bird was building a nest, and flew up as he

passed with a startled cry and a quick fluttering of

brown wings.

 

He tried to keep his mind fixed upon the devout

meditations proper to the eve of Good Friday.

But thoughts of Montanelli and Gemma got so

much in the way of this devotional exercise that at

last he gave up the attempt and allowed his fancy

to drift away to the wonders and glories of the

coming insurrection, and to the part in it that he

had allotted to his two idols. The Padre was to

be the leader, the apostle, the prophet before

whose sacred wrath the powers of darkness were

to flee, and at whose feet the young defenders of

Liberty were to learn afresh the old doctrines,

the old truths in their new and unimagined

significance.

 

And Gemma? Oh, Gemma would fight at

the barricades. She was made of the clay from

which heroines are moulded; she would be the

perfect comrade, the maiden undefiled and unafraid,

of whom so many poets have dreamed. She

would stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder,

rejoicing under the winged death-storm; and they

would die together, perhaps in the moment of

victory—without doubt there would be a victory.

Of his love he would tell her nothing; he would say

no word that might disturb her peace or spoil her

tranquil sense of comradeship. She was to him a

holy thing, a spotless victim to be laid upon the

altar as a burnt-offering for the deliverance of the

people; and who was he that he should enter into

the white sanctuary of a soul that knew no other

love than God and Italy?

 

God and Italy–-Then came a sudden drop

from the clouds as he entered the great, dreary

house in the “Street of Palaces,” and Julia’s butler,

immaculate, calm, and politely disapproving as

ever, confronted him upon the stairs.

 

“Good-evening, Gibbons; are my brothers in?”

 

“Mr. Thomas is in, sir; and Mrs. Burton. They

are in the drawing room.”

 

Arthur went in with a dull sense of oppression.

What a dismal house it was! The flood of life

seemed to roll past and leave it always just above

high-water mark. Nothing in it ever changed—

neither the people, nor the family portraits, nor the

heavy furniture and ugly plate, nor the vulgar

ostentation of riches, nor the lifeless aspect of

everything. Even the flowers on the brass stands

looked like painted metal flowers that had never

known the stirring of young sap within them in

the warm spring days. Julia, dressed for dinner,

and waiting for visitors in the drawing room which

was to her the centre of existence, might have sat

for a fashion-plate just as she was, with her wooden

smile and flaxen ringlets, and the lap-dog on her

knee.

 

“How do you do, Arthur?” she said stiffly, giving

him the tips of her fingers for a moment, and

then transferring them to the more congenial contact

of the lap-dog’s silken coat. “I hope you

are quite well and have made satisfactory progress

at college.”

 

Arthur murmured the first commonplace that

he could think of at the moment, and relapsed into

uncomfortable silence. The arrival of James, in his

most pompous mood and accompanied by a stiff,

elderly shipping-agent, did not improve matters;

and when Gibbons announced that dinner was

served, Arthur rose with a little sigh of relief.

 

“I won’t come to dinner, Julia. If you’ll excuse

me I will go to my room.”

 

“You’re overdoing that fasting, my boy,” said

Thomas; “I am sure you’ll make yourself ill.”

 

“Oh, no! Good-night.”

 

In the corridor Arthur met the under housemaid

and asked her to knock at his door at six in

the morning.

 

“The signorino is going to church?”

 

“Yes. Good-night, Teresa.”

 

He went into his room. It had belonged to his

mother, and the alcove opposite the window had

been fitted up during her long illness as an oratory.

A great crucifix on a black pedestal occupied the

middle of the altar; and before it hung a little

Roman lamp. This was the room where she had

died. Her portrait was on the wall beside the

bed; and on the table stood a china bowl which

had been hers, filled with a great bunch of her

favourite violets. It was just a year since her

death; and the Italian servants had not forgotten

her.

 

He took out of his portmanteau a framed picture,

carefully wrapped up. It was a crayon portrait

of Montanelli, which had come from Rome

only a few days before. He was unwrapping this

precious treasure when Julia’s page brought in a

supper-tray on which the old Italian cook, who had

served Gladys before the harsh, new mistress came,

had placed such little delicacies as she considered

her dear signorino might permit himself to eat

without infringing the rules of the Church.

Arthur refused everything but a piece of bread;

and the page, a nephew of Gibbons, lately arrived

from England, grinned significantly as he carried

out the tray. He had already joined the Protestant

camp in the servants’ hall.

 

Arthur went into the alcove and knelt down

before the crucifix, trying to compose his mind to

the proper attitude for prayer and meditation.

But this he found difficult to accomplish. He had,

as Thomas said, rather overdone the Lenten privations,

and they had gone to his head like strong

wine. Little quivers of excitement went down his

back, and the crucifix swam in a misty cloud before

his eyes. It was only after a long litany, mechanically

repeated, that he succeeded in recalling his

wandering imagination to the mystery of the

Atonement. At last sheer physical weariness

conquered the feverish agitation of his nerves, and

he lay down to sleep in a calm and peaceful mood,

free from all unquiet or disturbing thoughts.

 

He was fast asleep when a sharp, impatient

knock came at his door. “Ah, Teresa!” he

thought, turning over lazily. The knock was

repeated, and he awoke with a violent start.

 

“Signorino! signorino!” cried a man’s voice in

Italian; “get up for the love of God!”

 

Arthur jumped out of bed.

 

“What is the matter? Who is it?”

 

“It’s I, Gian Battista. Get up, quick, for Our

Lady’s sake!”

 

Arthur hurriedly dressed and opened the door.

As he stared in perplexity at the coachman’s pale,

terrified face, the sound of tramping feet and

clanking metal came along the corridor, and he

suddenly realized the truth.

 

“For me?” he asked coolly.

 

“For you! Oh, signorino, make haste! What

have you to hide? See, I can put–-”

 

“I have nothing to hide. Do my brothers

know?”

 

The first uniform appeared at the turn of the

passage.

 

“The signor has been called; all the house is

awake. Alas! what a misfortune—what a terrible

misfortune! And on Good Friday! Holy Saints,

have pity!”

 

Gian Battista burst into tears. Arthur moved

a few steps forward and waited for the gendarmes,

who came clattering along, followed by a shivering

crowd of servants in various impromptu costumes.

As the soldiers surrounded Arthur, the

master and mistress of the house brought up the

rear of this strange procession; he in dressing

gown and slippers, she in a long peignoir, with her

hair in curlpapers.

 

“There is, sure, another flood toward, and these

couples are coming to the ark! Here comes a

pair of very strange beasts!”

 

The quotation flashed across Arthur’s mind as

he looked at the grotesque figures. He checked

a laugh with a sense of its jarring incongruity—this

was a time for worthier thoughts. “Ave Maria,

Regina Coeli!” he whispered, and turned his eyes

away, that the bobbing of Julia’s curlpapers might

not again tempt him to levity.

 

“Kindly explain to me,” said Mr. Burton, approaching

the officer of gendarmerie, “what is the

meaning of this violent intrusion into a private

house? I warn you that, unless you are prepared

to furnish me with a satisfactory explanation, I

shall feel bound to complain to the English

Ambassador.”

 

“I presume,” replied the officer stiffly, “that

you will recognize this as a sufficient explanation;

the English Ambassador certainly will.” He

pulled out a warrant for the arrest of Arthur

Burton, student of philosophy, and, handing it to

James, added coldly: